After a few minutes, Zoey looked up from her phone and asked, “If it wasn't you controlling your body, who was it?”
I'd given it some thought over the week and had a weird theory. “Have you ever heard about how objects might hold on to something from their previous owners? Sort of a vibration or energy?”
Zoey frowned as she pushed the groceries on the kitchen island aside to make more room for herself. She was sitting on one of the barstools we had bought earlier that week for the kitchen. She reached for her school bag and started setting books on the counter. It was Friday night, and my daughter was already doing her homework.
She opened a science textbook to the index page and ran her finger down the list. “I don't see anything in here about vibrations,” she teased.
“Well, you're not going to find anything in a science book. But there are things scientists can't explain.”
She stretched, pulled the elastic band from her hair, and began fluffing out her long red hair. “Like what?”
“Like how I decided to move to the same small town where my long-lost aunt lives.”
She narrowed her hazel eyes at me. “Chaos theory,” she said with relish. “All complex systems rely on an underlying order. The smallest events can cause very complex behaviors or events that appear to be coincidence but are not.” She sat up straight on her kitchen stool. “Someone in your family must have spoken favorably about Wisteria. Or else”— she stuck her finger in the air—”maybe there's something in your genetics that makes you particularly sensitive to the chemicals given off by blossoming wisteria vines. Neurons that fire together wire together. And so when you heard of a town that was named Wisteria, your body responded with a rush of motivating dopamine. All this happened on a subconscious level.”
I blinked at her. “You're like a wizard.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Speaking of magic,” I said, “maybe it's the house itself that's possessing me.”
“Hmm.” She looked skeptical. “Should I be concerned about you levitating in your sleep or your head spinning around?”
“Not possession, exactly. Remember the architect who lived in our building? He said that all structures cast spells on people, in a way.”
“Do you mean the bald guy who grew orchids? He went to school to be an architect, but he worked in the accounts receivable department at a shopping mall. He did, however, wear very nice suits. And he had over a hundred pairs of shoes.”
“Now you're making me miss home.” I waved a hand. “Anyway, he said that structures have the power to manipulate people. If you squeeze visitors in through a tight mudroom and then let them pass into an airy, lofted foyer, they'll stand up straight and feel like they can fly, even though they're inside. A building can make people feel things.”
Zoey looked around the kitchen. “This place does give me good feelings.”
“Exactly. The kitchen is so welcoming that it's bringing us even closer together. We never hung out together in our old kitchen, because it was like the galley of a small boat. When you sat at the table with homework and I was around the corner in the kitchen, there was always a wall in the way. Maybe that's why I never took an interest in cooking before.”
Zoey was quiet, probably realizing her mother had a point.
After less than a week, we were already in a new yet comfortable routine. I would get home from work around the same time she got home from school, and we'd been meeting in the kitchen to catch up on each other's days. She would start her homework while I clanged around with pots and pans.
“Maybe this house has cast a spell on us,” Zoey said. “But it hasn't literally cast any spells because that's crazy talk. I'm sorry I thought there was a ghost in the attic when we moved in. Trust me, I regret putting that idea into your head. Can we just drop all the mumbo jumbo?” She patted her science textbook.
I looked over the array of fresh herbs and unfamiliar groceries I'd picked up on my way home. “Ghost or no ghost, something has changed. I think the home's former owner, Winona Vander Zalm, has become my muse.” I picked up a sprig of rosemary and crushed it between my fingertips to bring out the scent.
My daughter studied me carefully. “Are you saying the dead lady who used to live here is making you get up in the middle of the night and burn toast?”
I dropped my handful of fresh rosemary sprigs. “You know about the sleeptoasting?”
“You're not exactly quiet when you get up in the middle of the night.” She opened her textbook, read a few paragraphs from one page, and abruptly looked up at me. “Did you say you've been sleeptoasting? As in sleepwalking and then sleeptoasting? That sounds like a disorder.”
“It's not a big deal,” I said casually. “The elevation here is different from back home. My sleep cycle has been disrupted, but I'm sure everything will be back to normal soon.”
“Not if you're possessed by the ghost of the late Winona Vander Zalm.”
I stared down at the pan full of lamb meat, which looked nothing like the photo in the cookbook. “If I really was possessed, I would know what to do with this thing.”
She twisted her lips from side to side thoughtfully. “You need little white booties. Whenever I see rack of lamb on a cooking show, it's wearing little booties.”
“Aunt Zinnia will be here in three hours. What else do we have in the fridge in case this doesn't work out?”
“We've got vegetarian hot dogs in the freezer. Remember we watched that documentary about the meat industry on Tuesday, and on Wednesday we were vegetarian for almost the whole day.”
“And then on Thursday I declared a ban on documentaries.”
“And now it's Friday, and you have two hours and fifty-nine minutes to get some little booties onto some part of that meaty monstrosity.”
I clapped my hands. “Mix your hard-working mother a cocktail. Make it a mojito. That's white rum, sugar, lime juice, soda water, and mint.”
She gave me an irritated look. “I've known how to make a mojito since I was seven.”
“Please don't use that phrase when we have people over.” I snapped my fingers. “Make it a double.”
“I've got homework.”
“It's Friday night,” I said. “Homework can wait.”
“I'm nervous about meeting my great-aunt. Homework makes me feel centered.”
I batted my eyelashes at her. “A nice mojito will make your mother feel centered, and she's the one cooking your dinner.”
Zoey let out a weary groan but closed her textbook and began gathering the supplies to mix me a drink.
When Zoey was twelve, she'd seen the shiny cocktail shakers and fancy glasses in another family's apartment and had taken an interest in bartending. She didn't drink any of the alcohol, but she loved following the recipe guide and making fancy concoctions straight from a sixties-era book on mixology. I loved tasting her creations, but I drew the line at the drinks that included raw egg whites.
While she filled our cocktail shaker with ice, I raised both hands in the air dramatically. “Oh, ghostly spirit of Winona Vander Zalm, I'm in way over my head with this rack of lamb. Oh, ghostly spirit, I need your help!”
Zoey looked mortified, even though there was no one else in the kitchen except the two of us.
As usual, her mortification only encouraged me. I began to twitch rhythmically while chanting under my breath. “Winona, I call on you to help me make a rack of lamb. Winona, fill me with your spirit. Oh, wise and ghostly one, close my eyes and open them to another world. Guide me now, you attention-loving, event-hopping, party-throwing, good-looking socialite.”
A breeze blew through the kitchen, seemingly from nowhere. The air turned to liquid peppermint, and my sinuses tingled. I sneezed three times, and then the world seemed brighter and more colorful.
My daughter handed me a mojito with crushed green leaves swirling between the ice cubes. “That's fresh mint from our backyard,” she said.
“This house really is paradise.” I took
a sip. “Perfect,” I said in a snooty voice. “Put this on my tab. It's Vander Zalm, darling.”
She ignored me and went back to her homework. “That mint smell is really overwhelming, don't you think?”
“That's the ghost.” I raised my arms higher and began to moan. “Ghostly one, share with me your wisdom.” A shivery feeling snaked up the backs of my legs, like a cool blanket made of silk.
Without looking up from her book, Zoey commented, “You could always try reading the recipe.”
“I could, but... I don't need to.”
In a flash, the instructions had come to me. I knew exactly how to make a rack of lamb, from the marinade to the final grilling. I knew that the paper frills—the things Zoey had called booties—were used for covering the exposed rib bones, and they were called manchettes. I knew it all. All it had taken was a little relaxation, in the form of a tasty fresh mojito, to get things rolling.
As I worked, I hummed a tune I'd never heard before.
I didn't find any of this strange.
That's the thing about being possessed by a ghost. Sometimes you don't even notice until it's too late.
Chapter 12
Aunt Zinnia arrived at 7:05 p.m. with a bottle of wine in one hand and a large lamp in the other. Seeing her was, once again, like looking at myself in a mirror—if I'd tied my red hair up in a classic librarian bun and gotten dressed in the dark. On her bottom half, she wore a hybrid garment that was neither a skirt nor trousers. It was a skort, green and corduroy, ending around her knees. On her upper half, she wore a voluminous blouse, accented with a fitted vest made out of a floral material that would look right at home on a sofa.
I try not to judge a book by its cover, but Zinnia's appearance gave off a seriously kooky vibe. For the first time in my life, I finally understood how my daughter felt when she judged my own fashion choices.
The lamp in her hand had flowers all over the base and even more flowers on the shade. It was so thoroughly ugly that it almost veered toward being cute. Almost.
I invited her in, eyeing the lamp with suspicion. “Are you on your way somewhere else after this?”
“No,” she said.
“I guess you walk around with a big lamp for self-defense? Smart. Nobody's going to mess with you when you're packing something that's the perfect size for bludgeoning.”
Zoey appeared at my side by the entrance. “Mom and I rate everyday household objects by their bludgeoning capacity. That lamp of yours would score a seven out of ten.”
I watched as my two family members laid eyes on each other for the first time.
Zinnia gave my daughter an amused smile. “What would score a ten for bludgeoning?”
Zoey and I answered in unison, “Pewter candlesticks.”
“Naturally,” Zinnia said, nodding. “Followed by what? A heavy pipe wrench?”
Zoey sniffed in amusement. “Wrenches are no good,” she said. “Someone would notice if you left a heavy wrench lying around on your fireplace mantel. You'd lose the element of surprise.”
Zinnia looked from Zoey to me. “Zara, your daughter is lovely, and so sharp.”
I ruffled Zoey's red hair. “Sharpest pencil in the pack,” I said proudly. “Time for official introductions. Aunt Zinnia, meet Zolanda Daizy Cazzaundra Riddle, Zoey for short.” I looked into my aunt's hazel eyes. “Since you're my mother's sister, that makes you Zoey's great-aunt, and her your great-niece.” I put my hand beside my mouth and stage-whispered, “She's very concerned about what she should call you.”
Zinnia's hazel eyes seemed to glow as she beamed at Zoey. “Just call me Zinnia. No need to call me great until I've done something of greatness to deserve it. Such respect must be earned.”
Zoey shuffled from one foot to the other shyly. “How about Auntie Z?”
Zinnia's hazel eyes darted between us. Her nose wrinkled and one of her eyes twitched. “That sounds an awful lot like something familiar. But I can't quite recall.”
“Anti-Z,” I said. “That's the name of the zombie antivirus they used on Wicked Wives.”
My aunt made a strangled sound. “That horrible TV show?”
Zoey looked down at the floor. “I'll just call you Zinnia,” she said glumly.
Zinnia looked at me for guidance. As far as I knew, she didn't have any children. She was unaccustomed to the teenage roller coaster ride of high hopes and dashed expectations. I gave her a quasi-helpful shrug.
After a moment, she nodded. “Zoey, if it's what you want, then you should call me Auntie Z,” she said. “I insist.”
I gave her a smile and a nod. If this had been a test, she'd have passed with a B+.
She thrust the floral-patterned lamp at us. “Happy housewarming. I'm sorry it only scores seven out of ten for bludgeoning.”
Zoey squealed and took the lamp, hugging it to her chest. “Auntie Z, I love this,” she gushed. “We went shopping downtown last week, and I tried to find a lamp, but none of the ones we saw had any character.”
“It's all yours,” Zinnia said. “I bought your mother a pair of boots earlier this week, so you may have the lamp. It's a family heirloom.”
I swung my arm in faux-disappointment. “Aw, shucks,” I said. “I'll have to make do with visiting the lamp in your room, kiddo.”
The three of us exchanged friendly, cautious glances. We were still standing in the entryway. I knew it would be polite to invite her in and offer her a drink, but I was frozen. I hadn't realized how badly I craved familial connection until I'd gotten a taste. I'd never given much thought to my estranged aunt, but now I was nervous that I might screw up dinner so badly she never wanted to see us again.
Zinnia's eyes locked on mine, and I got the strangest sensation she was reading my mind. I'm nervous as well, her eyes seemed to say.
She stretched out her arms. “We ought to hug now,” Zinnia said. She waved her hands, and a force not unlike gravity sucked Zoey toward one outstretched arm and me into the other. Zoey held out the lamp so it would not be crushed in the fray. We squeezed each other in a friendly three-person hug.
I extricated myself and suggested Zoey take Zinnia on a tour of our new house.
“It looks grander than I remember,” Zinnia said, glancing up at the antique hanging light fixtures and ceiling trim.
Zoey said, “Mom told me you knew the former owner.”
“I didn't know Winona Vander Zalm as well as I would have liked, I'm afraid. But that's all in the past. I plan to get to know my lovely niece and my equally lovely grand-niece quite well.”
Zoey hopped up the stairs, lamp in hand. “Come and help me find the perfect place in my bedroom for the new lamp.”
I took the bottle of wine my aunt had brought and told her to go ahead.
Zinnia gave me a worried look. “Do you have a corkscrew?”
“I'm a librarian,” I said. “If you ever need a corkscrew, a USB stick, or a new cat, just ask a librarian.”
She frowned. “I haven't heard that before.” She sniffed the air. “You don't have a cat.”
“Allergies,” I said. “Go on up and look around while I uncork this and let it breathe.”
While they climbed the stairs and toured around the upper floor and the attic, I went to the kitchen to check on the food and final preparations. The lamb had already marinated in rosemary and herbs. It would take almost no time to cook in my preheated oven. Everything had come together as if by magic, and I couldn't wait for our guest of honor to take her first bite.
We started off with cocktails—mojitos for the adults and cranberry juice for the minor. Zoey talked about Corvin, the funny little boy next door whom she'd decided to adopt as a little brother.
“His name is Corvin?” Zinnia asked. “That's an unusual name. I believe it means raven.”
We were seated in the living room with our drinks and appetizers. I had the wingback recliner, positioned near the doorway so I could run into the kitchen to tend the food periodically.
“Corvin even
looks like a raven,” Zoey said. “He's got shiny dark hair that's so black, it's practically blue.”
“Probably a shapeshifter,” Zinnia said with a nod. “He's in the blue house next door? They've got a circle window in the attic. Shapeshifters are drawn to houses with nonrectangular windows.” She crunched on a carrot from the tray of crudités.
A shapeshifter? I could see why my mother referred to her baby sister as a kooky witch. The woman had mentioned shapeshifters with such a deadpan tone, I couldn't tell if she was joking or not.
Zoey squealed with laughter. “You're so cool, Auntie Z! It's not fair that I'm only meeting you now. If I'd known you my whole life, I'd be so much more interesting by now.” She looked right at me. “No offense, Mom.”
I held both of my hands up. “Don't blame me, kiddo. Your aunt had some sort of blowup with the rest of the family, and she took off like a leaf in the wind.”
Zoey turned back to her great-aunt. “What was the fight about?”
With a sigh, Zinnia said, “It was a long time ago, before you were born.”
“You can't remember?”
Zinnia leaned forward on the couch and stroked my daughter's cheek in a gesture that reminded me so much of my mother, my chest began to ache.
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” Zinnia said softly.
“Promise you won't disappear again,” Zoey said. “Promise.”
Zinnia made a strange series of movements with both hands and intoned, “I promise to stand by you, no matter what.”
An icy chill ran up my spine. Something strange was in the air, a pungent spice mixed with the cooking smells emanating from the kitchen. My skin prickled all over.
The timer for the oven beeped, and I jumped to my feet.
From that moment, I lost myself in the flow of preparing a sumptuous feast. The world turned soft, like I was looking at everything through sheer curtains undulating in a summer breeze.
Guided by unseen forces that were much better at entertaining than I'd ever been, I served dinner. The compliments flowed along with the drinks. The wine Zinnia had brought with her went perfectly with the herbs in the dinner.
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